#overheard at the continental
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v: continental drift | joel miller x f!reader
flash point (series) masterlist
pairing: pre-TLOU! joel x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)
summary: on a particuarly wet night, you run across tess servopoulos and joel miller, and they help you out of a tight spot
chapter warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, depictions of death and decapitation (don't fucking ask), wound stitching (not sure this is a warning but for my queasy peeps), swearing, FEDRA is still an authoritarian regime, decent amount of POV-changing, the slowest slow-burn of slow burns (because I'm trash and like to make you all wait for it), a decent amount of angst
a/n: the way i giggled nervously when I realized it's been a month and a half since my last update......sorry you guys. also the sam tea is hot so please enjoy it. also this is officially the end of side a so the next time we see joel and reader will be closer to the TLOU canon timeline
The next day, you’re surprised to find Joel back in the coffee shop at the end of your shift.
“Need something else already? Or just coming to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped?” you ask him sarcastically, as he steps up to the counter, raising a single eyebrow.
“Just came for some coffee, thanks,” he says, and you sigh.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you tell him, peering around the shop, “I just sold my last cup.”
“Oh,” Joel lets out, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Joel seems awkward.
“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” you say after a second, giving him a tired smile, “I work here, after all.”
“Thanks,” he lets out, and you have to bite back a laugh at how woody he sounds.
Who knew coffee would stump Joel Miller.
“Did you hear what happened?” he asks you, and while his tone isn’t necessarily urgent, it’s clear the information he acquired is worth sharing as you get to work making an extra cup.
“I came home yesterday and crashed,” you inform him, “So no,”
“Really?” Joel’s eyes fall pointedly on something that looks suspiciously like a fresh hickey at the top of your collarbone, “You. . . crashed?”
You give him an unimpressed look. “60 years of life and no one’s ever told you it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?”
“60?” Joel asks, eyes widening and gruff expression melting from his features almost entirely for a second, “You think I’m sixty?”
Your cheeky smile gives you away as you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head before giving him an expectant eyebrow as his scowl returns. “What happened, then?”
“They found bodies this morning,”
“Bodies?” you ask with a frown, looking up at him, “Where?”
“Abandoned church on Salem," Joel says, and for a second, your eyes widen, before your frown sets deep again, "Two young guys, both carrying assault-rifle type weapons,"
"You don't think –"
"–that when your little soldier boyfriend said there was a good reason it had been boarded up, he was damn right? That's exactly what I think, sweetheart,"
Your mind is running too many miles per hour to pay any attention to the nickname or the much more comfortable tone Joel seems to take with you as your fingers absent-mindedly reach for the coffee tin.
"Infected?" you ask him, and he nods.
"Overheard a few of his guard buddies talking about it. They're pretty sure it was infected, bodies were so torn up they couldn't ID them,"
"Jesus," you mutter to yourself, your fingers absent-mindedly reaching for the coffee beans tin, only to find it empty, "Shit,"
"Still sure you got enough for a coffee?" he asks, undertone sarcastic, and you manage to roll your eyes.
"Yes," you say pointedly, before turning to peer upwards, where you spot one of the 5-kilo coffee bean bags, "But you're going to have to help take down the new bag,"
Joel nods, walking around and behind the counter to join you as your arms reach out, fingertips barely grasping the edges of the bag. Joel has an easier time reaching, and together, you manage to lug the thing down.
"But why would they stay in the church?" you wonder out loud as you set the bag down on the counter with a huff.
"Beats me," Joel says with a shrug, which only makes the gears in your head whirr harder, frown deepening.
"Doesn't make sense," you mutter to yourself as you use one of the scissors on the counter to open a corner of the bag, leaning it slightly over the edge so you can fill the tin easily.
"What are you thinking?" Joel asks as he observes your face, and you look up at him for a second as your hands go on autopilot, dropping a handful of beans in the grinder.
"I'm thinking–" you say pointedly, "That they had no business being in that church, no reason to be there. . . the whole place was boarded up, there's signs everywhere. . . they may have been thugs but I doubt they were stupid enough to stick around,"
"Maybe they were just waiting to move the barrel," Joel says with a shrug, and you grimace slightly, shaking your head.
"There were three of them," you point out, pouring the ground coffee into a clean pot, the kettle whistling to your left, "And the checkpoint had already been abandoned for the night. . . best window to do it would’ve been immediately,"
"I'm not sure I follow," Joel says eventually as he stands next to you behind the counter, and you shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead.
"Don't mind me," you say with a sigh, "Been a long shift,"
The rest of the process happens in silence, neither you or Joel saying a word to each other as you finish making the coffee. Joel can tell from your expression that you're still pretty deep in thought, and the expression only clears from your face when you've made two steaming cups of fresh coffee. You hand one to Joel, who reaches into his pocket for a ration card.
“Don’t be silly,” you say, shaking your head with a frown as you finally seem to be pulled fully out of your thoughts, “I don’t want to see a single ration card come out of your pocket, Miller.”
Joel’s hand freezes in his pocket, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught off guard by how friendly your tone is, and he’s silent for a minute before he clears his throat, his hands staying in his pockets.
“Alright.”
"Who was this job for, anyway?" you ask Joel as you take a sip of the coffee you've just made, and he shrugs.
"Dunno," he says, and you resist an urge to smile at the fact that he's talking to you now, "Some wiry fucker Tess knew. . . I think his name was Peter,"
You grimace. "Creepy name for a creepy dude,”
Joel makes an agreeing snort into his coffee.
“Fertilizer, huh?" you say, making a face, "What the fuck's he gonna do? Plant a garden?"
Joel lets out a hum as he swallows down his sip.
"And fuel oil, for some reason," Joel says, clearing his throat, "You put anything extra in this?"
"Wait, rewind–" you say, and suddenly your voice is serious as you set down your cup, "You never mentioned he wanted fuel oil."
Your mind is racing as you finally put together the pieces of the puzzle. The reason they asked for such specific items, staying in the church after, not wanting to be asked nosy questions–
Joel frowns as he turns to look at you, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Shall I write you a full report? Or just the transcript of our negotiations?”
"Who was he?" you ask him, tone urgent as your eyes become wide, and Joel frowns deeper, “Joel, who was he?”
"Don't know, told you that already," Joel says, before his eyes flicker with mild concern, "What's wrong?"
You give him an alarmed look.
"Joel, ammonium nitrate is the main ingredient in fertilizer," you say, your voice low and filled with panic as your eyes flit around the half-empty coffeeshop, "And fuel oil––. . .they're making ANFO, Joel, it’s a goddamn–"
You don't know how Joel understands what you mean, but his eyes blow wide as he finally puts the pieces together
"-bomb," he breathes, and at that moment, there's a sound of crashing glass as something shatters the front window of the coffeeshop. Some people scream, those sitting by the window jumping away. It's a brick, and just as people gather to look at it, something else flies through the shattered window.
"Joel–" you yell, and you only just manage to turn your body, hand flying over Joel's shoulder as you push him down behind the counter, going to do the same–
BOOM.
The explosion is unlike anything you've ever heard, and if you hadn't had the good sense to press your hands over your ears as the sheer force of the explosives propelled you against the opposite wall, you're sure both your eardrums would have burst as sounds tear through the atmosphere around you.
When you open your eyes, you find yourself on your back, and everything hurts. Your gaze is directed at the ceiling of the building, your temples pulsing with pain, and all you can see above you is smoke, half burning embers floating through the air as you try to blink the dust out of your eyes. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure your vision, but you can still see the gaping holes in the ceiling from which pieces of stucco rain down. There’s a deafening silence in your head, filled only with a distant ringing, and your eyes blink several times as your vision becomes less blurry, bringing into focus the burning embers floating through the air as if dancing on the wind.
For a single moment, the silence is almost peaceful as you watch them flutter down around you, eyes still blinking as your mind seems to process what has just happened, before you feel your lungs expand with a breath, and the illusion of peace shatters.
The next breath you take is stifling, the dust scratching the inside of your throat as you try to breathe any kind of oxygen in your lungs. You’re vaguely aware of something entering your vision, a familiar face, but your eyes don’t immediately focus on Joel’s face until you feel his hands on either side of your arms, pulling you upright and propping you up against the wall. You're still dazed as your eyes roll over the scene. Most of the counter is still standing, but the front, near to where you’d been standing, has been blown to bits and everything once standing on it, is either in pieces, or strewn across the floor.
Your eyes are torn away from the scene as you feel a squeeze in your arms, and your gaze meets Joel’s. His face is dirty, covered in grime, but his eyes are alight like you’ve never seen them, more present and alert than ever as they inspect your face. He looks relatively unharmed, except for a few bleeding cuts and scratches on his face as his eyes search your face, and you see something in his eyes you'd not seen on him before. He looks worried.
You watch as he moves his mouth, and it looks like your name, but you still can’t hear anything except for that damn ringing. Your eyes try to make sense of the movement of his lips, but you’re too distracted by the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Joel seems to finally understand you can't hear him as his eyes look into yours. They’re wide with shell shock, continuously flitting between him and your surroundings in an effort to gain your bearings.
Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. You swallow hard, trying to clear your ears, but still the ringing doesn't subside. The only thing that seems to work is your nose, and the smell is horrible, a mix of acrid smoke, burning plastic and thick dust which oppresses your lungs. Joel gives your arms another squeeze, forcing you to look back at him, the shape of your name once again appearing on his lips. You shake your head at him, eyes wide with fear as they stare into his. You watch him as he swallows hard, eyes flitting around desperately, seeming to consider something. Then he moves beside you, taking your arm and slinging it over his shoulder. He says something else that you still can’t hear, but you nod as he looks at you, anticipating it as he pulls you up. You let him, trying to cooperate as much as possible, but your whole body hurts, screaming at you to lie back down again.
The minute your eyes focus on the full scene of the coffeeshop, your stomach turns and you wish you had never seen it.
Smoke and debris fills the air, casting an eerie haze over the scene; tables and chairs are strewn about like discarded toys, and the floor is a harrowing canvas of debris, bodies, body parts. . . you can see some people moving, crying, screaming. . . bending over others that lie face down and deathly still, blood smeared across the floors of the shop like morbid strokes of paint. The entire front of the coffee shop has been blown open, and the ground is littered in glass from the shattered windows which glitters dangerously in the fading daylight.
You can’t focus on it any longer as you feel Joel pull you towards the back door, keeping one arm around your waist to hold you up and using the other to push open the door. You quickly move past the backroom, before Joel is pushing against the heavy fire escape door, which sends you both stumbling into the alleyway as it gives way. You let go of Joel at that moment, and he helps you down on one of the upturned boxes against the wall of the alley.
Your hearing is slowly returning, the ringing becoming less and less as you can start to hear your own heavy breaths. It’s still muffled as you try and calm your thundering heartbeat, hand coming down to rest on your knees as your bow your head, shoulders shuddering. Your mind keeps flashing back to the images from inside, the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh still so present in your nostrils it makes you violently nauseous; the tears streaming down one woman’s grime-covered face, the man screaming in pain as his hands desperately the thigh from which his bone is protruding, a teddybear lying in a pool of blood, loosely clenched in the hand of its lifeless owner. . .
Your breathing is shallow as you register what you've just seen, trying hard to keep your breath under control, but your pants are ragged as you try to steady your shaking hands on your legs.
"Oh god,"
You bring a hand to your mouth, the feeling of wanting to throw up overcoming you suddenly, but you find that nothing comes out except for a hoarse cough.
A voice drifts through the fog, muffled at first, before it becomes clearer as it repeats your name. You look up at Joel as your hearing finally sharpens, so you can hear the blaring of sirens in the street as several trucks drive past the alleyway, the shouts from outside and the screams from inside.
“Those people. . .” you stammer, your eyes wide as they meet Joel’s, glittering with tears, “We have to–”
“There’s nothing we can do,” he says, a little breathless, but his voice solemn, “We have to get out of here. . . there could be more–”
“Joel!” you let out, your voice still tinged with horror and shock.
“We can’t!” he lets out, shaking his head as he looks down at you, “We can’t help them, okay? We have to go. . . if they decide to blow up another building, or god forbid, the fucking FEDRA army descending on this place right now, we’re in deep shit.”
After a second in which you stare at each other, you nod shortly, heaving a breath.
“You still have the keys to your place?” Joel asks, and you take a second to feel for them in your back pocket. Thankfully, they appear not to have fallen out during your ordeal, and you nod.
“Alright,” Joel says with a curt nod, before looking down at you, “Can you stand?”
You nod weakly, before getting to your feet. Your legs are still wobbling a little, and you frown as you feel pain flare through your ankle. Joel notices, and doesn’t even ask before he stands beside you again, taking your arm again to steady you against him.
You go as fast as possible, but it still feels like an eternity before you reach the building in which you live, the people in the streets either too busy running towards or away from the wreckage of the shop to pay attention to you. The minute the door closes behind you, Joel walks you over to the kitchen table, and sits you on top, your chest heaving a pained sigh.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even though his tone is neutral, his hand comes up, two fingers gently taking your jaw to analyze your face. He tilts your head to look at the side of your face as you groan slightly.
“I can’t hear anything on the left,” you say, and he hums.
“You’re bleeding. . . eardrum must be bust.”
“Shit,” you let out, closing your eyes and trying to take a deep breath as you feel Joel's fingers leave your face before he steps away from you.
“You got a first aid kit? Anything like that?”
You nod, motioning towards the sink. “Cupboard under the sink.”
Joel moves towards the sink, before crouching down and opening the cupboard under it.
“What about Tess–”
“She’s a smart woman,” he says through a strained voice as he gets to his feet again, setting the kit down on the counter, “She’ll figure out where we’ve gone if she has any suspicion we survived that. . . ANFO. . . I should’ve fucking known,”
Joel feels his stomach churn with guilt; of course he knew what ANFO was, they use to use it quite a bit way back when he was still rebuilding houses for a living.
“What was that?” you let out, and Joel’s face darkens as he grabs a glass from the upper cupboard and fills it with water.
“Pipe bomb,” he mutters, before he looks over his shoulder briefly, eyes pausing on the scratches that litter your arms, “Something like nails of bolts in it, from what I can see. . . the ANFO packs a pretty big punch in of itself, but the nails and bolts do double the damage because they act like shrapnel. . . it’s what the Unabomber did,”
Joel vaguely remembers watching a TV documentary on the Unabomber with his ex-wife, which had detailed his similar methods. He briefly wonders– or rather hopes– that the dude died during the Outbreak.
“Jesus Christ,” you let out in a breath, burying your head in your hands, “Who the fuck would do that?”
“People who feel like they aren’t being heard,” Joel says darkly as you hear him step back towards you, and you feel like sobbing.
Hadn’t the outbreak been punishment enough? Weren’t people sick of pain and grief?
“We sold them that shit, Joel,” you say through your hands, the despair and guilt in your tone clear as day.
He comes to stand in front of you again, leaving the kit and the glass of water on the table next to you, before pulling one of the chairs from the side of the table to sit facing you.
“I know,” he says solemnly as he sits down and opens the first aid box, pulling out some rolls of gauze. You finally look back up, eyes meeting his, and Joel can see in your eyes that you’re struggling with grasping this particular fact.
Of course Joel feels guilty, to some extent, but he'd been in the smuggling business long enough to adhere to the policy that once it was out of his hands, it was no longer his business.
“Here,” he says, swallowing as he grabs your arm, zeroing in on the largest cut.
Ironically it looks much worse than it actually feels, and almost the majority of your forearm seems covered in dried and fresh blood from this particular wound. Joel works in silence, cleaning the large cuts one by one and dressing them. You don’t mutter a word either, as you sit still and stare ahead of yourself a little. Joel knows you must be in shock, and he feels a strange amount of concern every time a loud sound from the street makes you flinch.
“Sorry,” you mutter after a particularly loud bang in the street outside makes you jump, and Joel temporarily loosens his grip on your arm as he bandages it.
“S’okay,” he says after a second, looking up at you briefly only to find your eyes unfocused once again, staring almost vacantly at the window. He notices your ears straining for sounds from the street, brows tied tightly together like you were searching them. Then, you feel Joel’s fingers back on your chin as he gently turns your head away from him.
“Still nothing?” he asks as he cleans the trickle of blood that has run from your ears down your neck. You shake your head as you feel his other hand come up, “What about this?”
You assume he snaps his fingers, but you only hear it on your other side. You shake your head.
“No,” you say, swallowing.
Joel lets out a sigh before his hand falls back down to his lap.
“Shouldn’t last very long,” he says, in an attempt to distract you, “Maybe one or two weeks.”
You give a non-committal hum as you nod, eyes still not meeting his as he returns to the final scratches on your arms.
“Stop thinking about it,” he says after a second, and this gets your attention, your head turning to look at him as he hunches over your arm.
“How?” you return, and he looks up at you, “How do you stop thinking about it? I–. . . those people are all dead, Joel. . . that could’ve been us.”
“Well lucky for me you got some fast reflexes,” he says, his tone almost joking as he looks back down to your arm, and you shake your head ever so slightly.
“This isn’t funny, Joel,” you say, and your voice is heavy with emotion as he looks up at you, your eyes shining with tears.
“I know,” he replies with a sigh, looking up at you, “I never said it was.”
There’s a split second in which you look at each other, before you swallow shakily and look away again, silence falling over you both.
It lasts only a second before you speak up again.
“How come you’re always the one patching me up?” you mutter, your tone half-hearted, making Joel let out a small scoff.
“Maybe because you keep getting yourself into trouble, sweetheart,” he returns as he wraps the rest of the bandage over a particularly large gash on your arm, careful to keep his grip loose around the fresh scar of your stab wound.
“Saving your life, you mean,” you mutter, and Joel emits a dry chuckle, before looking up at you from where he’s sitting hunched towards you. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, or if it's even a good idea, but he finds himself putting a reassuring hand on your knee, which he feels under his fingers is still trembling.
“That’s twice now,” he says with a squeeze of your knee, “You done being a hero? ‘Cause I’m afraid there won’t be much left of ya if this happens again.”
His face doesn’t reveal much, but his tone is strangely gentle, caring. . . something you’ve never before heard from Joel.
“Yeah, I’m done,” you say with a groan as you try to sit up a little more, Joel’s hand leaving your knee with a slight pat, before he gets to his feet. Then, his eyes fall on something under your chair, and he frowns.
“Are you bleeding?” he asks you, looking back up, and your eyebrows knit together as you follow Joel’s eyeline and find, to your great concern, a rapidly growing pool of blood gathering at your feet.
“I–. . . I didn’t think I was,” you let out, frowning slightly, before Joel steps around you, and you listen as he takes a sharp intake of breath.
“Your shoulder,” he says as you watch his hand go into the first aid kit and reach for the scissors, “You don’t feel that?”
“I mean a little, but, fuck–. . . ! What was that for?” you ask him, turning around to glare at Joel, who just used what felt like his entire hand to press down on the wound, making your shoulders erupt with pain.
“Sorry,” Joel mutters, as you feel his fingers pick up the hem of your shirt. Then, you hear the scissors cutting through the fabric of your top, “Doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll need a few stitches I think.”
“More fucking stitches,” you grumble to yourself, shaking your head as Joel peels the shirt from your back, “At this rate I’m going to be, like, 90% scar tissue.”
“And water,” Joel adds in an attempt at a joke, and to his credit, you chuckle slightly.
“And water, I suppose,” you say with a nod of your head as he reaches into the first aid kit for something to suture you with. You sit in silence as Joel cleans the needle and then your wound, before you feel him put his hand on your shoulder and he starts to sew you up.
It hurts, and you immediately feel tears spring into your eyes as your shoulders tense and your fingers tighten around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
“If you relax, it’ll hurt less,” Joel says, and his voice is practically in your ear, his breath fanning over your exposed skin.
“I’m being stitched up by a stranger with no pain medication or alcohol. . . I think you can understand why I’m tense,” you reply with a sigh.
Joel says nothing, but you can hear him thinking. You wonder about what.
“Stranger, huh?” Joel asks you with a hum, and you snort.
“What word would you use?” you reply, eyebrows creasing, “Because something tells me you’re not the type to have friends.”
Joel says nothing, only letting out a grudging sound as you feel the needle pierce your skin again, which makes you grit your teeth, shoulder tensing up again.
“Jesus Christ woman, relax,” Joel says again, letting out a breath as you feel him put a hand on your other shoulder, “Or I’ll sew you up crooked.”
You try your hardest, letting out a shaky breath and forcing your shoulders to un-tense, but it still isn’t enough, and Joel heaves a sigh as he tries to think of a way to distract you enough so he can sew you up at least half-properly.
“Be honest,” he says eventually, “How the fuck did you survive a month and a half out in the open?”
You’re silent for a second, and Joel waits for your answer before getting back to work.
“I was by myself,” you say eventually, as Joel places another stitch, which you react less violently to than the last one, “That sounds stupid, but I’m pretty sure that’s how. . . you have nobody else relying on you, you’re responsible for nobody and only have yourself to answer to. . . you’re entirely alone.”
“Here I was thinking that’s exactly what leads people to giving up,” Joel notes, throwing another stitch, and you let out a breath.
“You’d think that, but spite is a good motivator,” you admit, “Most of my time traveling I was just angry at the universe for putting me through the ringer. . . so I kept going. . . kind of like a ‘fuck you’, huh?”
“So you’re telling me–” Joel says, stopping to place another stitch, which you hiss at slightly, “–that you survived 2 months of hiking through the American backcountry as a fuck you to the Universe?”
“Canadian backcountry, actually,” you correct, before chuckling slightly, “But yeah, pretty much.”
“Canada?”
“Hm,” you give an agreeing hum, “We’d heard the midwest was hell on earth. . . as much hell as you can get in an apocalypse, I suppose. . . so I crossed the border somewhere in North Dakota, walked along the border.”
“What about infected?” Joel asks, and you shake your head.
“Only in and around big cities,” you note, “The rest is mostly national parks and forest, so I ran into relatively little trouble. . .infected were really the least of my worries, it’s the people.”
Joel gives an agreeing hum, but before he can open his mouth to reply, your front door flies inward with an almighty sound and you hear someone’s hoarse voice call out your name.
You jump again, eyes widening. From behind you, you’re vaguely aware of Joel’s hands having left your shoulders, and you hear the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off.
Sam doesn’t look too injured as his wide eyes search the room before falling on you. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and he has some smears of grime on his cheek, as well as a bloody handprint on the side of his pants that looks too small to be his. When he sees you, his face simultaneously relaxes and tightens at once.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he eyes the cuts on your arms, seemingly not even noticing Joel sitting behind you, and you nod.
“Just a few scratches,” you assure him, and he lets out a breath, before his expression becomes stormy. Behind you, Joel moves again, his hands coming back up to your wound where you assume he’s almost finished.
“The fertilizer,” Sam pants in a panicked voice, “Who did you give it to, speedy?”
“I kno–” you say, but Sam doesn’t listen.
“–because if you mix fertilizer with fuel oil you get–”
“–a bomb,” you finish, “I know, Sam.”
Sam’s voice stalls in his throat, eyes widening. “You knew? You knew they were planning on blowing people up and you went along with it anyway?”
“Obviously, I didn’t know that,” you reply sarcastically, and Sam lets out a scoff as Joel puts another stitch in your shoulder, palms coming up to steady your bicep.
“Sweetheart, I’m sure this is a very important conversation, but I’m gonna need you to hold still for me,” he says, his voice low but still audible as he focuses on the stitch.
Something in Sam's face twists when he hears the nickname, and Joel recognizes the flash of jealousy behind the young soldier's eyes that makes him realize this might not have been his smartest move. He doesn't find himself caring too much, drawing some satisfaction in the way Sam sizes him up.
"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" he asks him, moving his rifle towards Joel; not quite pointing it, but enough to tell him his attention has shifted, and not in a good way.
Joel takes up the challenge, moving his gaze from you to Sam, his shoulders setting imposingly as he gives Sam an almost unimpressed eyebrow from over your shoulder.
"Someone who doesn't have the fucking time for your little schoolboy crush."
"Joel," your voice is a sharp warning, "Not helping. . . Sam, I didn’t know.”
“I don’t care,” Sam says with a shake of his head, “Come on, you can’t be stupid like this, speedy.”
You close your eyes as you feel another stitch, face contorting in pain momentarily before you sigh. “I know.”
“–and all those people. . . did you know they killed fucking kids? I mean Jesus Christ,” Sam lets out again, and at this your jaw sets slightly.
“FEDRA hung an entire family for trying to come into the QZ last week,” you say, your tone cold, “You don’t need to lecture me on the blood staining my hands, thanks.”
There’s an uneasy silence between the two of you as Sam takes heavy, angry breaths, and after a second, Joel clears his throat, chair grating as he gets to his feet.
“All done,” he says, his voice back its usual stoicism, but neither you nor Sam pay him any attention as he walks to the other end of the room to clean his hands in the sink.
“You have to stop,” Sam says with a shake of his head, hands on his hips as he gives you a look.
“I have stopped–”
“No, I mean you have to stop smuggling,” he says with a shake of his head, “I don’t ever want you anywhere near this shit again.”
Normally you’d agree with Sam, but something about his tone irks you. It’s too authoritative, too controlling.
“Excuse me?” you utter, eyebrows flying up your forehead, “I don’t need you telling me to do anything, Sam.”
“Clearly, I have to– given you’re in absolutely no fit state to make any sound fucking decisions,” he hisses at you, and his tone has a venom to it you've only heard him use a handful of times.
“What the fuck is your problem?” you let out, and Joel can hear in your voice that you’re stung.
“You really want to know what my problem is?” he seethes, before motioning towards Joel, “This. . . ! This is my problem! This ridiculous rebellion you have going on, that you’ve had since the day you left the academy, that makes you run around here like some kind of untouchable, twisted version of Robin Hood. . . it’s stupid, speedy, and sooner or later it’s going to get you killed.”
“Hasn’t gotten me killed yet,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Sam lets out a sound of exasperation.
"I don't fucking care!" Sam lets out, his voice loud with anger and frustration, "You aren't listening–. . . the Fireflies’ cause isn’t any more noble than FEDRA’s regime. . . they’re all the fucking same, they lie and they kill, and sooner or later, they'll turn on you and you'll end up like your fucking dad."
"What?"
Your tone is shocked, and Sam watches with a guilty turn of his stomach as your eyes widen in shock, and grief, glistening with the oncoming threat of tears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Sam says your name, but you interrupt him as you get to your feet suddenly, the sound of the grating chair filling the otherwise silent room.
"Tell me," you say through gritted teeth, and Samuel purses his lips, jaw clenching in frustration with himself as he takes a second to answer you.
The room is so silent that even with his bad ear, Joel is sure he could hear a pin if it dropped.
"It wasn't some random bystander that snitched on your dad," Samuel admits finally, and Joel realizes with a horrible turn of his stomach what he's about to say, "It was the Fireflies. They weren't happy he stopped helping them, and so they tipped FEDRA off that he’d been letting them run operations through the shop."
Your vision is starting to narrow as you take a shallow breath, eyes boring into Samuel. "How do you know this?"
“It doesn’t matter–”
"No– Samuel, how do you know this?" you say, your gaze going back to the boy you'd known for 13 years, your eyes filled with the puzzle pieces you're struggling to put into place, "If we were ever friends. . . please tell me."
Samuel's eyes plead with yours as your brain works overtime, before he lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head. "Burke is my mom's name, I took it when I joined the academy because I was sure they wouldn’t let me in otherwise. . . my dad's name is Hartwin."
Even Joel recognizes the name; it had been whispered in the streets for the past few years as word spread of the Fireflies' revolution and victory in San Francisco, led by a hardened ex-marine called Jack Hartwin. His name had been spoken with a twisted kind of admiration, word of his liberal use of violence somehow less known.
"Sam," you let out, your voice trembling as you blink once, tears still refusing to spill down your cheeks as your face becomes a mask of realization, "Oh god.”
“Speedy, please–”
He takes a small step in your direction, but you respond with a step back, your body almost flinching at that stupid nickname falling over his lips. It had been for a stupid reason, as well, a name he’d called you after you’d out-sprinted almost your entire class during a training exercise at the academy. You had let him, allowing the nickname to take hold until eventually he had started to use it more than your actual name. Now, the name sounds poisonous coming out of his mouth.
“How long have you known?” you ask him, your voice is trembling with both rage and betrayal, “And don’t you fucking even think about lying to me.”
Sam’s face becomes a mask of solemn guilt.
“Since the beginning,” he admits sorrowfully, “I found out who you were a few days after you joined.”
“You knew–” you say, your voice stalling in your throat as you hear your heartbeat thunder in your ears, “You knew all this time, and you never told me?”
“What would you have done with that information? We were sixteen, speedy,” Sam pleads.
“You were protecting him,” you accuse, your voice hoarse with pain and anger.
"I was protecting you," Samuel shouts back, his eyes wide and pleading, "That's all I ever wanted to do, okay? My father would've destroyed you if you'd gone after him. . . you were my friend, the first and only one I’d ever had, and I couldn’t in good conscience say anything–"
“That wasn’t your decision to make!” you explode, and finally the tears flow freely over your cheeks, “This whole time, you lied to me. . . you looked me the face and you lied to me, for thirteen fucking years, I–”
Your voice stalls in your throat as you take a shaky breath, your trembling hand coming up onto your forehead, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the overwhelming urge to hurl.
“Speedy, please,” Sam says, and his voice is shaky, “I wasn’t protecting him. . . I want nothing to do with him. . . I was horrified when I found out what he’d done, I joined the academy out of spite because I wanted to get as far away from him as I possibly could.”
“How fucking noble of you,” you spit, your tone venomous as you refuse to look at him.
Silence falls on the kitchen, not a word spoken by anyone, until eventually you let the breath out again, just as shaky as when it came in. Sam tries one more time, saying your name, your actual one. . . but you interrupt him before he can get any further.
“Get out,” you say, and this time, your voice is firm and furious. His eyes widen with surprise and hurt for a second, before his brow creases slightly.
“What?” he utters, his voice filled with pain, his eyes even flitting helplessly to Joel for a second, who is still standing in the corner as quietly as he can, wishing he had the superpower to turn invisible right now.
“You heard me, get out,” you repeat, and you’re still not looking at him, fingers pressed against your mouth lightly as your eyes look down at your feet.
His expression becomes almost pleading. “Speedy–”
“Samuel,” you return, your eyes, alight with fury, finally meeting his.
You say it like a warning, and Sam presses his lips together as he watches your expression.
“Get out of my house before I do something I regret,” you seethe, and Joel watches your fists clench at your side. He feels his shoulders tense slightly, readying to move just in case your common sense fails you and he has to actually pull you off the soldier standing in your living room holding an assault rifle. When Sam says nothing, you repeat yourself, your voice raising. “I said get out, Sam, fucking get out, before I–”
“What?” Sam interrupts you anyway, shaking his head “Before you kill me. . . ?”
He doesn’t say it with scorn nor anger, tone maybe a little disbelieving but open and vulnerable nonetheless.
When you say nothing, he takes a breath. “You would do that to me, Speedy?”
Joel knows it’s going to happen before it does, watches as your fingers curl around the glass of water on the table, hears the sound of it shattering as you knock it over. It doesn’t hit anyone, but Sam jumps slightly at the sound, but to his credit, his gun remains unfired.
“Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” you shout at him, “Get out of my face. . . I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, and Joel notes that he actually sounds genuinely upset.
“With all my heart I fucking mean that, Samuel,” you say, your voice barely controlled as your eyes shine with tears of anger, “I mean it. . . I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want to hear your name. . .I curse the fucking day you ever even spoke to me, if you’d just minded your own damn business you’d have saved us both the fucking trouble.”
Sam is completely silent as he processes your words, the only sounds in the room that of your breathing.
“Get.out.”
Sam heaves a defeated sigh, his own eyes shining with threatening tears. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that Joel is witnessing this, his eyes focused only on you as his eyes plead with yours.
Finally, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, before pulling it open. He pauses there, before turning his head slightly over his shoulder, but without looking at you.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, before swallowing harshly, “I only did it because I love you. . . you’re my family, not him.”
Every word he says feels like a gut punch, and you show him your back as you try and take a deep breath, feeling your face contort as you’re overtaken with the sudden urge to cry.
The door clicks shut quietly behind him.
You take a deep breath, clearing your throat and looking at the ceiling for a second, before walking towards the door that leads to what he assumes is your bedroom, passing by Joel standing in the corner in silence. Your face is a mask of so many emotions Joel can hardly keep count; hurt, betrayal, rage, and he can see the tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheeks, but you don’t meet his gaze. He says your name, but you ignore him as you pass him by, only saying in a hoarse voice:
“Please do me a favor and show yourself out.”
Joel barely has time to nod wordlessly before your door slams shut with an almighty bang.
END OF SIDE A
a/n: ya'll i PROMISE it gets more exciting/more spicyyy. i just needed to establish this so i could flesh out the reader/joel dynamic and the basis for their relationship. please please bear with me, i have a plan heheheh. as usual, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story as a whole, i love hearing your input/feedback :)
taglist:
apart from those of you who explicitly asked to be added, i also took the liberty of tagging some of you that showed interest in more parts (if you do not want to be tagged, please please let me know, in which case i apologize in advance for doing so!)
@tanushreeg27 @user1112223334449890171 @frecklefacelm @samarav @alyssiamarierenee @platinumblondeedition @huntersandpie @lizlil @lumpypoll @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @phryne-fish @ponyboys-sunsets
as usual, replies, reblogs and likes are highly appreciated!
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Okay so listen, I couldn't write it immediately because I had to get out and get throwaway phone and all of this conspiracy thing because it's very important.
Basically you heard all those things that election boycott is somehow backed by Russia or that Biden is funded by China, right? Forget all of this, none of them has any role in what's happening!
The actual mastermind here is The Spanish Crown.
I don't know everything, I just overheard agents of Spanish King negotiating with one of cardinals (I am priest in Vatican) and chaos in America is part of their plan called Reconquista Nuova. The King wants to restore Spanish rule over the New World, and first step is making the USA lose that power, but eventually it will be conquered as well. The parliament knows, they were working on this plan for over a decade (he didn't say when it started he just mentioned something happening in 2015 which was part pf the plan), but it really escalated when in 2021 they completed the AI trained on works of Niccolo Machiavelli to replicate his consciousness and now she is the grand coordinator of their machinations (it was she who ordered the Wagner group to surrender, for example, she is also responsible for organizing the assassination of Shinzo Abe).
Spain negotiates with Holy See to use us as network of more subtle political influence and they are already doing it because most of cardinals are on their side, but Pope himself is opposed to the plan and that's why cardinals are trying to overthrow him. In return Vatican will become overseer of continental Europe instead of USA, same as Spain gets control over the New World. Africa and Asia are not divided yet, but Jesuits have infiltrated CCP to ensure that China will be friendly to Spain.
No matter whom you vote the USA will soon descend into chaos and Spain is already prepared to feast on the ruins of the Empire.
I don't know what to do with that information, but I feel like you deserve to know.
We need to start building a resistance network for the fall before it’s too late, I’ll get my Yemeni friends on the phone
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Magnifico stood when Melissa did. He kissed his wife goodbye, sorrowful that their business meeting was adjourned. The manager knew he would see her shortly for dinner, but it was difficult not to miss her during the time between. As Melissa walked toward the door, he topped off his wine — only to make a sharp aah. There was one last item left he needed to share.
The silver - haired manager leaned against his desk. A hand slipped into his trousers pockets. "Mi corázon, un minuto. That man you hired for the kitchens . . . Leon Hawk. You should know he handed in his resignation to me this morning, effective immediately. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news ; I understand you had high hopes for him as a pastry chef."
Magnifico stared over the rim of his glass and sipped his drink. "I overheard him last night saying rather loudly to his fellow staff members that he believed you were visiting the beds of our regular guests. He did not like my response."
A dark chuckle left the manager then. "There will be no paperwork to see to, my love. I can assure you that Mr. Hawk will not be seeking employment in this city or country again. Unless the rats are kind enough to regurgitate him as a whole." Magnifico pushed away from the furniture then and headed back to his seat. "His work companions have been given a sharp reprimand, as well. Do pardon them if they are quiet, and — you have my blessing to find someone to fill Mr. Hawk's position at your leisure."
At that, Magnifico looked up. Though he grinned quite charmingly for her, his eyes were cold and hard. The now - missing employee may have meant nothing with his gossip, but he had shared it nonetheless. Slander was as good as a physical threat to the manager, who watched over his wife and children closely.
unscripted asks . always accepting
The peculiar sound that Magnifico made upon finishing his drink had Melissa pausing, heels turning over the polished floorboards even before he called out to his wife. It had been a while since the concierge had been married to him - and before that, the woman served long enough as his employee. The current manager of that Continental branch could be a lot of things (as she would be quick to enumerate herself, particularly in the past) - but he wasn't without manners.
He would never appreciate fine wine like a common person did with a cold beer after a hard day at work; Magnifico did not care for behavior that made him look anything less than immaculate (save for his bedroom etiquette) or brought him closer to the type of men who worked for Melissa's father. The manager's words about their somewhat recently hired kitchen hand were even more surprising - Melissa was concierge for a reason; the higher authority on hotel grounds did not concern himself with menial things like performance reviews.
But when he glanced at her over the rim of his glass and disclosed the actual reason for his involvement - it all made sense. A small smile lifted the corners of the woman's lips, a concerning gesture for one from outside that world but perfectly understandable for those living in the shadows and surrounded by a peculiar code of conduct. Returning to the office proper, Melissa's steps were slow but deliberate, making it back to her husband.
The notion that the woman slept around was not novel - there weren't many females doing her job (at least in their region), and Melissa had never been shy about relying on some of her more obviously feminine assets to get something done. And while she had not been in the habit of sharing a bed with clients... It was true that the brunette did sleep with her boss at one point.
The impressive ring on her hand was proof of how that had ended, after all.
At the description of just how the poor man had been fired (or rather, killed), Melissa chuckled too. However, hers was a gesture entirely based off humor, somehow impressed that Magnifico had quite the ability to be graphically descriptive but wouldn't stand five seconds watching it. The woman knew that he had people for that - trusted executioners who undoubtedly carried not only the sentence but also intimidated his peers; but the orders came from the man now behind his desk.
A large, remarkable piece of furniture which was made into a temporary seat for Melissa, the concierge perching atop the surface if only to lean forward with a hand and touch him, cupping the face of her husband gently. A sigh of adoration was released in tandem with soft strokes of a thumb over his cheek, enjoying the facial hairs and the smooth skin as the pad of the digit moved.
"Have I mentioned how much I love you today?" the concierge asked - but it was a rhetorical one. Chuckling and shaking dark tresses out of habit, Melissa moved even closer to place a chaste kiss to his forehead, profiting from the added height boost offered by the desk while Magnifico remained in his chair, like a king in his throne. "I love you, mi vida. I am sorry he turned out to be a disappointment - I will place a new ad for the position and start interviewing shortly."
Seemingly satisfied after the kiss, Melissa returned to solid ground and retraced her prior path towards the door - but this time, the woman paused before crossing the threshold without any interference from Magnifico. She merely looked at him with a particular glint in her honeyed gaze - dangerous and unforgiving just like the light that had been in his blue eyes a moment before.
"Never apologize for protecting your family, Nicolás. You know I would do the same for you and any of the girls - no questions asked."
#hisroyalmagnificence#v: the Continental#replied#torture tw#death tw#someone: *commits murder for her*#Melissa: omg that's my favorite love language#...not even kidding she loves him sm for the feral protection
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Mr. Saqqura.. have you ever had to put Pazuz in the bottle jail
"As if you would dare!" Arrian's voice sounds distinctly more playful and teasing than anyone else on Urum, or indeed anywhere else in the galaxy, would ever hear him - but here, right next to Saqqara's ear, who sits cross-legged on a mat, rummaging through all manner of correspondence, it's natural. Familiar. Normal. As far as you can use that word in the Eye of Terror.
Saqqara looks up, turns his head to the World Eater and gives him the most reproachful look imaginable. Big, golden eyes full of miles-deep hurt.
But Arrian doesn't fall for it. He waves it off, laughs. "Don't even try that. I know what you're really like."
"And yet you think I wouldn't respect Khorag's gift from his god." - "I didn't say that. I said you wouldn't dare if Khorag overheard." - "No, you didn't say that!" - "Quite sophistical for someone who constantly tries to read between the lines of his primarch's words."
Saqqara snorts indignantly. "You are and remain utterly disrespectful." - "Indeed. Born that way, grown up that way, remained that way."
The Word Bearer tries to remain serious and look at Arrian piercingly. But then he can't help but laugh. Both seem strangely young and carefree at this moment. As if the rebellion had never happened. As if the gods were nothing but a bad dream and the blood on their hands only carelessly spilled paint.
Saqqara puts down the datapad. "But you are right. I'm certainly not going to turn Khorag against me. The man is more patient than the continental drift. And can hold a grudge about as enduring and unstoppable."
Arrian leans back. "And if the Chief Apothecary were to command you to do so?" - "That would be different. He's the one Khorag can be mad at."
"But actually Paz'uz is quite affable after all." - "And useful!" - "Oh, yes. Very." - "Definitely no reason whatsoever to send the slimeball to Time Out." - "Absolutely none."
Saqqara shuffles around a little, leans against Arrian and continues to rummage through his own and others' correspondence. Arrian closes his eyes. Lets familiarity gum up his nails into tenacious peace. Takes in as much quiet as he can.
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@vincentbisset :~)
he had always been a journalist at heart. hungry for the truth, eager to expose the secrets that others attempted to keep hidden in the dark. with the fortune he'd accumulated from that infamous edinburgh flat, he also had a newfound freedom: the ability to pursue his passion without the constraints of financial worry. but little did he know that his thirst would begin down a dark and hazardous path; a chance encounter at a local pub, an overheard conversation from a group of men discussing their ties to the high table. curiosity piqued, who wouldn't decide to dig deeper? using contacts and resources to uncover the web of assassins that operated in the shadows of london, later to be discovered as the shadows of the entire globe, he found himself as simply an observer. a curious journalist who had stumbled upon something too big to ignore. however, as he delved further into the seedy underbelly of the city, he found himself drawn into the world — eventually a leash around his own neck.
a willing pawn, he became: someone who could be used to disseminate information or serve as a mouthpiece when needed. the straddle of two worlds > one of journalism and one of death. it was a precarious position to be in, but he couldn't deny the rush he felt as he navigated the murky waters of the underground world. he finds himself seated inside the london continental hotel, a meeting called to order by a high-ranking member of the high table, eyes watching as a man finally sits beside him — two hours of waiting paying off.
“oye, if i knew this was going to be an all-night affair, i would've packed a fucking overnight bag.”
#vincentbisset#ic.#thx you for allowing me to write this hehehe#this is very loose but ... im also very excited <3
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//ooc: Heads up- this is a departure from the usual content on this blog.
I’m not feeling particularly patriotic today because of the current actions of SCOTUS, but I am in an educational mood. The accomplishments of women, and their capacity for great things are currently being threatened and trampled on.
A manipulative and highly vocal minority is preying on vulnerable populations to mold their thinking into a punitive theocratic state, while also paving the path for systemic misogyny and the resurgence of race and class stratification. Women, particularly women of color, are among many groups of people being targeted today. So today, I’m going to highlight and honor two people that should be recognized so that their impact on our history doesn’t get lost.
Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784)
Born in Gambia, Africa, Phillis was captured by slavers and brought to America. In less than two years, she be came a well educated woman that could read a variety of literature. Astronomy and geography was also in her repertoire of knowledge and skills. She began to write poetry at the age of fourteen and her first published piece came out in 1767. In 1770, her piece “An Elgiac Poem, on the Death of the Celebrated Divine George Whitefield”, earned her fame. Following this, she soon became the first black woman in America to have a published book.
During the American Revolution, she wrote extensively to ministers and other officials speaking out against slavery. She also wrote a very well received poem that celebrated George Washington’s appointment as the commander of the Continental Army. Even so, she continued to speak out against the use of slaves in America. She strongly believed that this issue was a roadblock to American gaining true heroism and patriotism.
Wheatley married a free black man, John Peters, from Boston and latter died in 1784 after complications from child birth. Her legacy greatly impacted American literature and showed others that, with equal access to education, African Americans were just as capable of creative and intellectual greatness as all other human beings. Her work and impact helped influence the abolition movement.
Source: https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/phillis-wheatley
Elizabeth Freeman (“Mum Bett”) (~1744-1829)
Born into slavery in Claverack, NY around 1744 (documentation to confirm the year of her birth was not able to be found), Elizabeth grew up on a plantation with her younger sister, Lizzie. This plantation belonged to Pieter Hogeboom. While unable to read or write, she had a tactical and strategic mind. After being transferred to another location owned by Colonel John Ashley and Hogeboom’s daughter, whom had married the Colonel.
Mrs. Ashley had a history of cruelty towards slaves and one incident was marked down in history. In one conflict, Freeman protected her sister from being struck with a heated kitchen shovel by Mrs. Ashley. This act left her with a serious wound that never healed up properly. Instead of hiding this injury, she kept it as visible as possible as proof of the mistreatment slaves endured.
Freeman would go on to eventually sue for her freedom. Less than a year after the Massachusetts State Constitution was ratified, she challenged it in court. She was inspired by this when her master, Colonel Ashley, wrote an ultimately famous line in the Sheffield Declaration. “Mankind in a state of nature are equal, free, and independent of each other, and have a right to the undisturbed enjoyment of their lives, liberty, and property.” This very same language would eventually be used in the Declaration of Independence in 1776, as well as the Massachusetts Constitution in 1780.
Freeman had overheard these words and eventually went to an attorney named Theodore Sedgwick to challenge the constitutionality of slavery under these words. Many lawyers of the time decided to see if this case as a test to see if this interpretation was viable. In 1781, the Berkshire Court of Common Pleas received a “Write of Replevin” that ordered Freeman and another enslaved man to be freed. Colonel Ashley, however, refused to let them go. This spurred Freeman to sue Ashley in a case that she ultimately won. She was freed and awarded 30 shillings in addition to coverage of court costs.
Elizabeth went on to be a prominent healer, midwife and nurse. Twenty years later, she was able to buy her first home. She died in 1829 at an estimated age of 85 and was buried in the Sedgwick family plot in Stockbridge, Ma. Her actions to gain her freedom ultimately led to a series of trials that culminated in determining that slavery was incompatible with the new Massachusetts Constitution.
Source: https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/elizabeth-freeman
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//ooc: Heads up- this is a departure from the usual content on this blog.
I’m not feeling particularly patriotic today because of the current actions of SCOTUS, but I am in an educational mood. The accomplishments of women, and their capacity for great things are currently being threatened and trampled on.
A manipulative and highly vocal minority is preying on vulnerable populations to mold their thinking into a punitive theocratic state, while also paving the path for systemic misogyny and the resurgence of race and class stratification. Women, particularly women of color, are among many groups of people being targeted today. So today, I’m going to highlight and honor two people that should be recognized so that their impact on our history doesn’t get lost.
Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784)
Born in Gambia, Africa, Phillis was captured by slavers and brought to America. In less than two years, she be came a well educated woman that could read a variety of literature. Astronomy and geography was also in her repertoire of knowledge and skills. She began to write poetry at the age of fourteen and her first published piece came out in 1767. In 1770, her piece “An Elgiac Poem, on the Death of the Celebrated Divine George Whitefield”, earned her fame. Following this, she soon became the first black woman in America to have a published book.
During the American Revolution, she wrote extensively to ministers and other officials speaking out against slavery. She also wrote a very well received poem that celebrated George Washington’s appointment as the commander of the Continental Army. Even so, she continued to speak out against the use of slaves in America. She strongly believed that this issue was a roadblock to American gaining true heroism and patriotism.
Wheatley married a free black man, John Peters, from Boston and latter died in 1784 after complications from child birth. Her legacy greatly impacted American literature and showed others that, with equal access to education, African Americans were just as capable of creative and intellectual greatness as all other human beings. Her work and impact helped influence the abolition movement.
Source: https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/phillis-wheatley
Elizabeth Freeman (“Mum Bett”) (~1744-1829)
Born into slavery in Claverack, NY around 1744 (documentation to confirm the year of her birth was not able to be found), Elizabeth grew up on a plantation with her younger sister, Lizzie. This plantation belonged to Pieter Hogeboom. While unable to read or write, she had a tactical and strategic mind. After being transferred to another location owned by Colonel John Ashley and Hogeboom’s daughter, whom had married the Colonel.
Mrs. Ashley had a history of cruelty towards slaves and one incident was marked down in history. In one conflict, Freeman protected her sister from being struck with a heated kitchen shovel by Mrs. Ashley. This act left her with a serious wound that never healed up properly. Instead of hiding this injury, she kept it as visible as possible as proof of the mistreatment slaves endured.
Freeman would go on to eventually sue for her freedom. Less than a year after the Massachusetts State Constitution was ratified, she challenged it in court. She was inspired by this when her master, Colonel Ashley, wrote an ultimately famous line in the Sheffield Declaration. “Mankind in a state of nature are equal, free, and independent of each other, and have a right to the undisturbed enjoyment of their lives, liberty, and property.” This very same language would eventually be used in the Declaration of Independence in 1776, as well as the Massachusetts Constitution in 1780.
Freeman had overheard these words and eventually went to an attorney named Theodore Sedgwick to challenge the constitutionality of slavery under these words. Many lawyers of the time decided to see if this case as a test to see if this interpretation was viable. In 1781, the Berkshire Court of Common Pleas received a “Write of Replevin” that ordered Freeman and another enslaved man to be freed. Colonel Ashley, however, refused to let them go. This spurred Freeman to sue Ashley in a case that she ultimately won. She was freed and awarded 30 shillings in addition to coverage of court costs.
Elizabeth went on to be a prominent healer, midwife and nurse. Twenty years later, she was able to buy her first home. She died in 1829 at an estimated age of 85 and was buried in the Sedgwick family plot in Stockbridge, Ma. Her actions to gain her freedom ultimately led to a series of trials that culminated in determining that slavery was incompatible with the new Massachusetts Constitution.
Source: https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/elizabeth-freeman
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1776 -Thomas Hickey
Thomas Hickey (died June 28, 1776) was a Continental Army soldier in the American Revolutionary War, and the first person to be executed by the Continental Army for "mutiny, sedition, and treachery".
Thomas Hickey was a private in the Commander-in-Chief's Guard, a unit formed on March 12, 1776, to protect George Washington, his official papers, and the Continental Army's cash. That spring, Hickey and another soldier were arrested for passing counterfeit money. While incarcerated in Bridewell prison, Hickey revealed to another prisoner, Isaac Ketchum, (possibly overheard by two others, Isaac and Israel Youngs) that he was part of a wider conspiracy of soldiers who were prepared to defect to the British once the expected invasion came.[2]
Arrested by civilian authorities, Hickey was turned over to the Continental Army for trial. He was court-martialed and found guilty of mutiny and sedition. He was hanged on June 28, 1776, at the corner of Chrystie and Grand Streets before a crowd of 20,000 spectators in New York. Hickey was the only person put on trial for the conspiracy.
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Rewatched John Wick three times this month already. Love this movie so far, so I made these for some characters:)
Maybe someone will like it too
#john wick#incorrect john wick#john wick characters#john wick marcus#john wick winston#keanu reeves#willem dafoe#ian mcshane#john wick perkins#john wick aurelio#john wick charon#john leguizamo#adrianne palicki#lance reddick#overheard at the continental#john wick continental#continental hotel
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John Wick Chapter 4 out of context spoilers
#john wick#overheard at the continental#incorrect quotes#incorrect john wick quotes#incorrect john wick#helen wick#john x helen wick#the matrix has queue#winston (john wick)#helen wick deserved better#john wick spoilers#john wick 4 spoilers#john wick chapter 4#nobody#nobody john wick#caine john wick#caine
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#john wick#overheard at the continental#the matrix has queue#cassian (john wick)#ares (john wick)#santino dantonio#the marquis#john wick chapter 4#viggo tarasov#iosef tarasov
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Endlessly Dangerous, chapter 17 now up!
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One-shot set about six months after the conclusion of Talk.
#john wick#overheard at the continental#helen wick#john x helen wick#the matrix has queue#marcus (john wick)
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Endlessly Bitter, updated for the first time in years ☕️🧁
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Chapter 16 of Endlessly Dangerous now up :)
John led Helen away from the club but didn't lessen his grip. There were still enemies and people who would be watching from the shadows. Even in the haven of the Continental, he was taking no chances.
He frowned as they reached the elevator, remembering that they would have to see Charon to get the room key.
Helen’s presence would likely keep the Concierge from saying anything too outlandish.
He pressed the call button and the doors opened immediately. He led her in, pressing the button for the lobby.
Chances were that Winston had already told Charon about the room he had set aside for them but he needed to think about how to phrase the conversation to make it sound as unsexual as possible. Charon would not have forgotten their little rendezvous in the gallery.
He couldn’t stop Charon from having seen the footage but he could try to minimize the damage.
The doors to the elevator closed and Helen turned towards him, reaching her hand up to his neck.
“Hels,” he murmured, “What are you doing?”
She answered with a teasing smile. “I wasn’t done yet,” she told him, pulling him down for a kiss.
At once, all thoughts of propriety went out the window. He wasn’t done, either
She’d caught him at the right time, he thought. Between the danger of the gallery and the insanity of M’s apartment, John's ability to see reason was greatly diminished. And the kiss in the club had only whet his appetite for more.
John grabbed her face, backing her against the elevator wall, pressing his body into hers.
Helen moaned. Her hips rolled against him as her tongue swept at the seam of his lips. Away from prying eyes, he deepened the kiss. He let one hand curl into her hair, holding her just where he wanted her while the other hand massaged its way down her neck, her back.
Her slitted leg rubbed against his and Christ, the things he could do to her with just a little more time…
It wasn’t fair that every time they started, he knew they would soon be interrupted. That the elevator doors would open.
And yet, he was more afraid of Helen making a move when they were truly alone.
He was getting closer and closer to being unable to deny her anything. Would he be able to resist her if she tried this upstairs, in the room that had been booked? Maybe they should just go home. At least there he could lock himself away in his room.
There was a ding and the elevator came to a stop, the doors opening.
John broke away, his breathing heavier than it had been after killing three men earlier.
He quickly attempted to compose himself.
Helen, to her credit, simply grinned at him and walked out of the elevator like she hadn’t just been rubbing up against him.
He followed her out into the lobby. Only a few guests remained; the rest either tucked away in their rooms for the night or relaxing in the club below. Which meant that only a few people were watching him hurry after Helen like a dazed puppy as she made her way to the front desk.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, leaning against the desk.
John did his best to ignore the flutter of annoyance at the endearment.
“Hello, my dear. I’m sorry we did not get the chance to catch up earlier,” he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. “Are you doing alright?”
“I’m fine. M’s focusing on John more than he is me.”
If she meant that statement to ease Charon’s current opinion of John, it didn’t. The Concierge just ignored his presence.
"I worry about your health.”
Helen rolled her eyes. "My health is fine."
Charon raised a brow. "I doubt the stress is good for you."
“No more than it has been for the last year,” she pointed out. Her tone was casual but John could detect the barest hint of bitterness in her words. Then she smiled, like nothing happened and added snarkily, “When this is all over, I'll be sure to consult my pulmonologist.”
Charon frowned.
“Winston said he set aside a room,” John said, interrupting before Charon had a chance to reply.
The Concierge’s eyes flashed to John, even as a cordial smile graced his face. “He did.” Then to Helen said, “I hope you don’t mind– I upgraded you to a suite.”
John had stayed in the Continentals across the globe thousands of times. In between living situations, he’d often resided in New York for weeks at a time. He’d stayed in nearly every room over the course of many years.
While there were certainly suites with single beds, John was willing to bet that Charon had placed him in a suite with multiple rooms.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“It was no trouble. Believe me.” Charon passed the keys across the desk with his best customer service smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy your stay. And I will see you tomorrow?”
Fuck. John had almost forgotten about lunch with Charon’s family.
His hopes of not having to deal with the Concierge outside of Continental grounds were quickly dashed. What were the chances that Charon would follow similar rules in front of his family?
John could just imagine Charon lunging across a table to hit him or asking for help bringing something in from somewhere and attempting to strangle him.
“Of course,” Helen answered with a smile. “Good night!”
“Good night,” he echoed as Helen turned back to the elevators. As soon as her back turned, the Concierge’s expression darkened.
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.
John said nothing, choosing to follow Helen instead.
The elevator doors opened. Several people already occupied the space, likely leaving the club to return to their rooms. He recognized a few by face and none by name.
It was probably a good thing, he thought. An empty elevator on the way to their room was almost tempting fate.
Still, John made a show of wrapping an arm around her.
To Helen, it was probably a mild form of PDA but to everyone else in the elevator, it denoted possession. And, in the unlikely event that anyone tried anything, he'd be able to maneuver her quickly.
He'd never seen so many people conscientiously avoid looking at him.
The ride up was slow as they waited through multiple stops before finally getting out on the fifteenth floor.
Their suite was one usually reserved for dignitaries: members of the High Table, traveling nobility, and their entourages. John had never stayed in such a room but had visited often enough when accepting assignments or negotiating contracts.
It opened into a large sitting area, complete with a breakfast nook, a bar, and a couch in front of a large fireplace. A balcony ran the length of the suite, with its own table set. There was an executive area with a decent-sized table and an office set for meetings and three bedrooms attached. Each room had its own bathroom with the master bedroom including a large tub and separate walk-in shower.
Helen set her purse on the bar as she explored the space, oohing and aahing at the amenities attached. John took off his jacket, tossing it on the arm of the couch. He sat back and watched her check out each of the rooms in turn.
“This seems just the slightest bit excessive,” she said as she exited the third bedroom.
He agreed but avoided pointing out the obvious. Charon had very purposefully given them no excuses to wind up in bed together.
Which was definitely for the best.
Probably.
He was almost certain.
“But, damn, look at all this space.” She glanced over her shoulder with a playful smile. “If we move the coffee table, I think there’s definitely enough room for you to do a pirouette or some shit.”
John chuckled. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”
Helen shot him a look that answered the question for him.
He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed or disappointed. That sheer look of joy in her eyes made his stomach twist.
“Where did you learn?” she asked, crossing the room and taking a seat next to him on the couch. She angled towards him, her arm on the back of the couch. She rested her head in her hand.
“It was part of our lessons at the orphanage,” he admitted. “Then, at the theater we stayed at when we moved to the U.S.”
Helen blinked. “You lived in a theater?”
That was harder to explain, involving a great many details about the Ruska Roma community and their role under the Table and the Director’s attempt at bringing them prominence and prestige.
He tried his best to simplify it. “The ballet teacher from the orphanage decided to migrate to New York. She bought a theater and renovated some of the upper levels into living quarters. Brought some of us with her to work.”
Helen frowned, her brow furrowing. “How old were you again?”
“When we moved?” He shrugged. “Nine or ten, I think.”
“So, are child labor laws not applicable in the underworld?”
John shook his head, vaguely amused at the innocence of her question. “The entertainment industry has a lot of loopholes.” He left out that no one particularly gave a fuck about a bunch of immigrant kids, provided they had a roof over their heads. “But, no, the underworld doesn’t really care so long as they’re not drawing attention to themselves.”
“Hmm.” She hummed, clearly unimpressed. “How did you feel about it?”
He shrugged. It had been so long since he’d given that time of his life more than a passing thought. “Didn’t really know anything different. And life here was better than in Belarus.”
“You must have been good. For your teacher to have chosen you to go with her.”
He tried to imagine the Director giving any sort of compliment beyond, “That wasn’t terrible,” or “I’ve certainly seen you do worse”. He doubted she’d ever deemed anyone’s work as good. But she had favored him, at least to some degree.
“I was alright,” he said. “But it’s been a long time.
Multiple decades had passed since he’d done more than basic warm up stretches.
He’d be lying if he said that ballet training hadn’t prepared him for some of the work he did. The discipline, the dexterity, the ability to withstand tremendous pain without flinching… But he hadn’t actually danced since leaving Tarkovsky.
“How long?”
Jesus, he felt old thinking back to the last time he’d been in that theater. “About thirty years.”
Her brow raised. “So, you really didn’t like ballet.”
John returned her look, teasingly challenging the assumption. “I was a small, teenage boy in a world where might was right. Being decent at ballet did not result in acclaim.”
She pulled her head out of her hand, dropping her arm behind him so that her fingers slipped under his hair and traced the back of his neck.
“You expect me to believe the girls weren’t all over young Jardani?”
He tried not to have a physical reaction to the way his given name sounded on her lips. What had she asked him again?
Right. Girls. That was almost laughable.
“Hardly, they tended to go for the other guys.”
Although he’d still been a young teen when he’d left Tarkovsky, the girls around him had never shown any such interest. He’d been friends, or at least friendly, with quite a few of them. They were far more likely to ask him to practice with them or study than anything seemingly romantic.
“Or your oblivious nature strikes again.”
Now John raised a brow incredulously. “Oblivious?”
There were a lot of words he’d used to describe himself but oblivious wasn’t one of them. It couldn’t be, given how many enemies he had.
She gave him a pointed look. “O-bliv-ious.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the fact that anything short of a proposition seems to go over your head.”
“That’s not true,” he protested. He’d fully admit that it had taken him a little bit to realize that Helen had been flirting with him but, it wasn't that long.
“Okay. What about tonight?”
What about tonight? He thought.
“You mean…” he wasn’t sure how to politely word what they had done before going into the actual gala. “The South Wing?”
Helen snorted, her face pinched as she tried and failed to fight a smile. “No. Me directly telling you to kiss me doesn’t count, although it does prove my point. I’m talking about when we first arrived at the gala.”
John blinked, still unsure what she was talking about. After a minute of recounting their arrival in his head, he shrugged.
“Oh, sweet Jesus. Vivien, John.”
“Vivien wasn’t flirting with me,” he said, shaking his head. They’d talked for all of a minute before she’d left and none of them had said anything of note. “She knew I was there with you.”
Helen burst into laughter at that. “You’re adorable if you think that makes a difference. Did you really not notice the way she was looking at you? Or how devastated she was when you didn’t recognize her?”
He blinked again, trying to recall anything from their short encounter. “How was any of that flirting? She barely said a word to me.”
“Okay,” Helen said, shaking her head. “Now I’m feeling a lot better about how long it took you to realize that I was flirting with you.”
He opened his mouth to respond before realizing he didn’t know how to actually respond to that.
“When one person has romantic or sexual feelings for another person,” she said slowly, as if explaining a basic principle to a child. John half-glared in her direction but Helen didn’t appear to care. “Usually, they’ll try to establish some sort of connection either with their words or eyes or even physical touch. Or, what we would call flirting.”
“Okay, I get it,” he said dryly, rolling his eyes.
“It’s often done without actually stating explicit intent,” she continued, ignoring his words even as she grinned in his direction. “For example, one might stare a bit too long. A touch,” her hand caressed the back of his neck, “might linger.”
"Helen," he murmured, unsure if he was saying her name as a warning or a prayer.
Helen reached around him, resting her forearm on his shoulder. The hand that had just been rubbing his neck dropped to her skirt, which she pulled open at the slit. Before he had time to even wonder what her next move would be, she leaned onto her arm and swung a leg over his lap until she was straddling him.
“Or they might lean heavily on innuendo. Hinting at what they’re thinking and feeling to see how the other responds. In cases where one person is a little dense, the other might have to be very direct: tell you flat out that they want you to kiss them.”
Fuck.
She was close now. Her face was only a few inches from his own. He would barely have to lean forward to kiss her. His hands dug into the couch cushion below them as he attempted to keep them still.
How the fuck was he supposed to resist this?
And why the fuck was he still trying?
Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip as she gazed across at him.
“Hels,” he said, desperately trying to think of something he could say to make her understand.
She gave him a soft smile. “What’s your excuse this time?” she asked in a teasing tone. “You won’t kiss me unless there’s an audience? I’m too vulnerable to know what I’m thinking?”
He had a good one, somewhere. Some sort of excuse, in the back of his mind, for just this an occasion. Locked and loaded.
Of course, that was before Helen rolled her hips against him. His cock, which had been half-hard since she kissed him in the elevator, was straining against his pants already. And he was unable to shift without her feeling exactly what she was doing to him.
Did she think he didn’t want this?
That he hadn’t imagined how she would taste and feel and look under his hands and mouth? That he hadn’t already brought himself to release with her name on his lips?
His resistance had never been about him. Not for a second. It had always been about her.
And since his excuses had fallen flat, perhaps it was time for the one weapon in his arsenal he typically avoided. Honesty.
“You know I want you,” he said, thinking back to every superfluous touch. Every shared smile and lingering glances. The kisses and the oh-so obvious excuses. Helen teasing him, daring him to cross the line. “You know.”
“Then why are you fighting this?” she asked, not unkindly.
John really wished he could remember. He paused, forcing himself to come up with something. Anything.
"I'm trying not to take advantage of you,” he said tightly, almost pleading with her to understand his plight.
I want you. I want you so much I think it might ruin me. And I know I don’t deserve you but I’m trying.
"Take advantage?" she repeated, sounding amused. “Okay, I don't know if this is some outdated attempt at chivalry or whatnot, but this is the twenty-first century. I am an adult. And, no matter what you and Charon seem to think, I am fully capable of making my own decisions and setting my own boundaries."
Was that what this was?
He’d been trying to protect her from the part of him that was like Mikhail– dark and selfish and obsessive– by going as hard as he could in the opposite direction, all the time forgetting that it was never his decision to make. The when and what and how were not up to him and him alone.
Helen had the say.
Helen had the only say that mattered.
John swallowed, so close to losing complete control and taking her without another thought. He forced himself to slow down.
He wasn’t M.
“I need you to be sure,” he told her, even as his hands relaxed from the cushions and trailed up against the bare skin of her thighs. “Because, I swear, Helen, I am so much worse than M ever could be. And I will not let you go.”
She didn’t respond right away and the silence made the beating of his heart seem deafening.
John didn’t know what he would do if she went back now. If he would be able to release his grip on her and let her slide off his lap without moving, stopping her or begging her to come back. He wasn’t certain he’d truly be able to let her go, if that was her wish.
In the darkest thoughts he usually ignored, he could see himself becoming desperate and unhinged. Following her, even when this was all over and M was dead, under the guise of protecting her. But no matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to cross the line.
Helen placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing an exposed patch of skin.
“You can protect me from the rest of the world, John. But I don’t need you to protect me from you.”
She leaned forward, crossing the distance, and kissed him.
That was enough.
The days of holding back, of ignoring his instincts in favor of conventional reason– which he didn’t understand in the first place– were gone. He had tried to be careful and gentle, knowing what she had been through. He’d tried to become everything that he thought needed.
John had given her every opportunity to turn back.
Now the dam had burst.
His hands, which had been resting on her thighs, shot up until they reached her hips, his long fingers reaching around to dig into her ass. He used the leverage on her to hold her steady as his hips rolled up, grinding against her lap.
Helen moaned into his mouth and he could feel her try to move against him, but his grip was too strong. He would let her move of her own volition soon enough but he needed her to understand first.
She said she didn’t need him to protect her from himself.
He didn’t say it out loud but he taunted her all the same. Prove it.
Because they weren’t going to come back from this.
He rolled his hips again and Helen responded by deepening the kiss, her tongue brushing against his. He answered in kind, sucking on her tongue. She tasted like the fruity drinks from the club.
He liked it.
Suddenly, John wondered what else he could taste for the first time on her tongue.
He opened his eyes, breaking the kiss and caught sight of her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her features tight with desire.
Again, he grinded up against her and watched her tense further. She inhaled sharply and bit her lip as he continued to hold her in place. Helen reached for him but John did not hesitate, releasing her hip to snatch her wrist and pin it back to the couch.
“Not yet,” he told her.
“John,” she murmured, somewhat breathlessly as her eyes opened.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he squeezed her wrist before his hand migrated back to her hip, and then both hands sank lower, past the hem of her dress. John watched her carefully for any sign of uncertainty.
Show me you can take this. That you want this. That you want me.
Finding none, he continued to push his hands up her thighs. His right hand brushed over the lacy holster, his thumb grazing the weapon there.
He liked its placement.
The idea of reaching under her skirt, finding the hidden gun, and shooting someone from between her thighs was… gratifying.
John pushed past the holster, continuing up until the dress was past her hips.
Keeping one hand locked on her hip, the other trailed across until it slipped beneath her underwear to cup her.
She sighed softly and squirmed against his hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, which would not do.
Fingers digging into her flesh, he ordered, "Look at me."
Helen's eyes dragged open and remained lidded but she complied.
"Good girl," he said softly, rewarding her by rolling his palm. She sucked her lower lip and John watched as her fingers curled into the couch but she remained still as she kept her gaze locked on his.
John ran two fingers along her wet slit before slipping them between her folds. They ghosted her clit, stroking over the sensitive bud gently. Helen tried to push up against him but he was faster, moving just enough out of reach that she couldn’t follow him.
Pouting, she asked, “You gonna keep teasing me?”
John raised a brow, continuing his ministrations with the softest of touches to her clit. He could feel her tensing in anticipation under his hand. “You wanna talk about teasing?”
Helen shot him a pointed look in response. “It’s not my fault you wanted to take your damn ti–”
Her words cut off in a gasp as John’s touch became hard.
He smiled to himself as he watched her face tense, lips parting.
John sought her entrance, his palm indirectly continuing to stimulate her clit, as he slipped one finger inside her. She clenched around him and, Jesus, how was she so fucking tight?
As if she could read his mind, Helen confessed, “It’s been a long time.”
She didn’t have to say more. He understood what she wasn’t saying.
M had been watching her for more than a year and in that time, she hadn’t been with anyone. She hadn’t even dated, afraid that anyone in her company would face the consequences from the crazed stalker.
He wasn’t going to think about that now. More importantly, he wasn’t going to allow the memory of M to taint their time together.
John licked his lips as he stared into her whiskey-colored eyes.
“Then, I’ll have to get you ready, won’t I?”
John wrapped an arm around her waist and spread his hand between her legs, still keeping his finger inside her. Before she could blink, John flipped their positions, moving so quickly she didn’t even realize what he was doing until her back hit the couch. She gasped as she landed and John dropped to the floor, between her legs. They fell open to accommodate him.
He ripped her panties away, and buried his face against her. His tongue found her clit, wasting no time in lavishing her.
“Fuck!” she swore and John could see her throw her head back out of the corner of his eye.
He removed his index finger from inside her and replaced it with his middle finger, allowing it to become equally soaked in her. John removed that one, as well, before taking both fingers and running them in a circle around her entrance. He could feel the flutter of her pussy even from there as his tongue continued to devour her.
Her hand grabbed his hair, holding his head in place as she moved against him, her breath becoming heavy.
He could easily escape. Even without hurting her, John could think of at least six ways to get her to release him. Maybe next time, he would. He could demonstrate just how easily he could overpower her.
John was beginning to think she might like it.
For now, he had more important things to do than prove a point he wasn’t sure he remembered.
He sucked on the bundle of nerves, smiling against her as she moaned, rubbing herself against his face.
She’d told him once that sex could be fun. He was beginning to think she might be right.
Gently, yet without slowing down from the care and attention he was giving her clit, John pressed his fingers back inside her, together.
There was a sharp intake of breath as he began to slide his fingers into her until he’d reached his knuckles.
John looked up at her. Her eyes were closed, her face still tense with growing pleasure. Her updo was down, her hair falling all around her. And with his mouth on her clit and his fingers inside her, she’d never looked so perfect.
He started slowly, eyes locked on her face, as he began to pump his fingers inside of her, curling them towards himself on each pump. Her hips jolted in response and John began to stimulate her clit in time.
A string of swears and nonsensical affirmations began to pour from her lips as John began to speed up each stroke.
This he understood. Far more than emotion and communication and those little important lessons that had been missed in his youth.
Physicality made sense.
For the most part, bodies worked the same. Areas that were vulnerable or sensitive to pain were also sensitive to pleasure.
You could not be an expert in one without having some understanding of the other.
John could barely form a sentence about what he felt for Helen but he could manipulate her body until she was writhing beneath his tongue and crying out his name. He felt her clench around his fingers, her muscles spasming as he continued to lick his way through her orgasm. He didn’t stop until her body went slack.
He looked up from between her legs. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her lips parted as she breathed. Her eyes, which had fluttered shut, opened again as she looked back down at him.
Her hand was still wrapped around his head, tangled in his hair. Helen guided him up until he was draped over her, and kissed him gently.
He wondered if she could taste herself on his lips– a thought which made him infinitely and impossibly harder.
“Not that that wasn’t wonderful,” she said between kisses, reminding him: “But we have our choice of available beds.”
And if that wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever heard…
John kissed her once more before taking a hold of her thighs and guiding her legs to wrap around him.
He wasn’t as young as he used to be and was slightly at odds with the fact that most of his skill came from hand-to-hand, but he was still very capable. With a practiced ease, he rolled off the couch, planting his feet beneath him as he pulled Helen up with him.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she kissed him again. Thank fuck he was a multitasker.
He felt her moving against him before hearing the sounds of her shoes falling off one by one.
John followed suit, kicking off his shoes and toeing off his socks as they hobbled towards the bedroom.
Setting her on her feet as they reached the bed, John's gaze raked over her. Past her flushed face and swollen lips and over her mussed dress.
"Turn around," he told her.
Her teeth grazed her lip as she turned, like she knew what was coming.
He pressed a kiss to her back, between the base of her neck and the top of her dress. He pinched the zipper between his fingers and began slowly dragging it downward, continuing to place kisses down her back until he could no longer reach without kneeling. Then he rose, his tongue trailing the path that his lips had just taken.
Helen shivered in his arms as he reached his full height.
His hands reached the straps of the asymmetrical neckline. He spread it open and over her shoulders before letting it fall down her curves.
John’s mouth watered as he soaked in the sight of her.
He’d been right about the tattoo on her hip. The floral vines stretched upward over her waist on one side while another elaborate bouquet rested on her opposite ribs, just below her arm.
He touched the bouquet, hand running along the top of the tattoo before arching around and cupping her breast. His other hand lazily traced around her stomach and he pulled her back against him while his thumb played with her nipple and her head fell back against his shoulder.
Helen began to move, her ass rolling back against his cock through his pants.
John placed a kiss on her shoulder as his hand moved to massage her other breast. He pinched her nipple as his teeth nipped at her throat. He paid careful attention to every sound and jump that accompanied his actions. Cataloging them in his head with every intention to come back to it later.
Her voice was heavy as she told him, "If you keep making me wait, I'm going to hurt you."
"Promises, promises," he replied, mocking what she had said to him in the gallery earlier that night.
She turned in his arms, going straight for his belt. Her hands made quick work of the buckle before she tugged it loose, along with the button of his pants.
Well, if that was how she wanted it…
John pushed her backward towards the bed as he quickly discarded his pants and boxers. Helen bounced on the bed, completely naked, save for the holster at her thigh. His gun was strapped to her. His mark was left on her, keeping her safe.
He pressed a kiss just above it before taking out the gun and unsnapping the holster. He brushed his thumb over it, checking without looking that the safety was off before he placed it on the nightstand.
He climbed back over her, wrapping an arm around her waist before he pulled them both farther up the bed. Her hair had completely fallen out of the earlier bun and fanned out around her.
Helen reached for him immediately, pulling him down to press her lips to his. Her other hand slipped between their bodies as she’d reached his aching cock. Her fingers wrapped around him, running along his length.
He bucked against her hand.
He’d been half-erect for the better part of the week but he’d been hard as steel since the moment she’d climbed onto his lap.
There was still so much he wanted to do. He’d barely had the chance to explore her body. He’d yet to trace her tattoos with his tongue and he’d barely touched her breasts. But he wouldn’t last long if Helen continued to stroke him the way she was.
He caught her by the wrist again and forced her hand up and over her head before he could embarrass himself in her hand.
Helen shot him a glare before reaching with her other hand, which he quickly caught, as well.
Later, he thought to himself. She could do whatever she wanted to him later. But right now…
“You’re mine,” he told her.
Helen made a passive show of resistance, fighting against his grip in an attempt to reach him again, but they both knew it was futile.
She licked her lips and swallowed. “Then, prove it.”
He intended to.
He released her hands, one arm moving to her side to prop himself above her as the other reached for his cock.
Her hips jerked in anticipation as John rubbed the head against her soaking folds before setting himself against her entrance. In a rare display of gentleness, John pushed slowly inside her. Her breath hitched while he buried himself completely, forcing himself to give her time to adjust.
She felt heavenly. There was nothing on Earth that could possibly compare to the way her body felt beneath him, around him. Her arms encircled him and she curled her head into the crook of his neck, giving an experimental roll of her hips.
The small thread of control snapped.
John drew back and thrust inside her, reveling in the sharp moan that accompanied his actions. He did so again, watching her face contort in harsh pleasure.
“Fuck, John,” she moaned as he hoisted her leg up and around his waist, pulling her closer to him while he grinded down against her.
It was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d hoped for. Except, “Jardani,” he corrected, suddenly desperate to hear his true name on her lips again.
Her eyes flashed in recognition, a tender expression blending with desperation.
“Say it,” John demanded, thrusting deep within her.
“Jardani,” she half-said, half-whimpered as his onslaught continued. Her heel dug into his back as Helen met him stroke for stroke. “Jardani."
That was nearly enough to make him come. He was so fucking close. Each time their hips met, John had to stop himself from losing it and letting it be over.
Already, he could feel himself teetering on the edge, growing closer with every gasp and moaned Jardani.
A wealth of new, unnamable emotions began to swell within him. He couldn't distinguish one from the next but he thought he might die if he lost this, if he lost her.
Beneath him, he could feel Helen’s body stiffening. Her grip around him tightened. Her nails dug into his back.
He reached between them to find her clit and push her over the edge again. He could feel the moment she fell over it, her core spasming around him as she cried out his name. She fell beneath him, hips still moving against him absently while she panted.
With that, he gave himself to focus on his own rising need for release. He pumped in and out of her limp body, listening to the soft words that fell from her lips until he, too, reached his precipice. He spilled inside her with a string of broken Russian before collapsing onto her body.
John breathed her in as he came down from his own high.
Helen’s arms tightened around him as she placed a kiss on his neck. The possession he felt was overwhelming. The thought of anyone even coveting what he had made him nearly murderous, and he couldn’t quite narrow down why.
As Helen’s kisses reached his mouth, he forgot about the question and soon lost himself to her again. And again.
It was hours later, after Helen had fallen asleep that the question came back to him and he realized the obvious answer.
For the first time, John Wick had something to lose.
#overheard at the continental#john wick fanfic#john wick fanfiction#john x helen wick#helen x john wick
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